Children and Companions
by petrichorister
Summary: All warriors were once children. A series of seven drabbles from the Kink Meme.
1. 5th Midyear, 4E 181

For a Kink Meme prompt requesting fluffy childhood moments. It took me much longer than I intended to _actually_ write and post this, but I like how it turned out. I ended up making seven drabbles about different Companions.  
**Disclaimer:** The Companions and the world they live in are property of Bethesda. The characters Nereus and Mhiralda are mine. Others (Demith, Alarik, and Borak) were made up expressly for this fill.

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Of all the fun and exciting places for young children to live, Falkreath is not one. Falkreath is small, and quiet, and boring. The only landmark of note is the cemetery, and the other children are few and far between and, for whatever reason, almost all several years older than the youngest child in town.

But Ria doesn't mind.

Ria is five years old with a gap-toothed smile as she chases her older brother through the town, laughing and smiling and maybe wishing she were a bit faster. She's easily the smallest child, and probably still would be even if she weren't so much younger than the others.

But she chases them without fail in their game of tag. She chases Valdr and Lod and Mathies and her own brother, Nereus. She runs down the main path through town as Nereus speeds up to get away and Valdr and Lod slow down to give her a chance to win.

Eventually she catches up with one of them. She catches Lod, who is maybe seven years older than her and has slowed almost to a halt by the time she reaches him. He's panting, and if she weren't so young and so proud of herself she might have noticed how exaggerated his labored breathing is and how his eyes twinkle just a tad. But, as she _is_ young and proud of herself, she calls out _You're it_ and dashes away.

And she laughs.


	2. 7th Sun's Dawn, 4E 178

The boy swings his legs under the chair. He's still just short enough that his feet don't quite touch the ground. Farkas is taller, just by a bit, and his feet touch the ground. But Vilkas' feet do not.

If he weren't sick, he might be outside with Farkas right now. Farkas is down playing with the other children in the town square, but Vilkas is sitting in Jorrvaskr. He's read three books this week already, borrowing them from Askar and Kodlak and even Hedvika, Aela's mother. Maybe he'll know all his histories by the time he's seen ten winters, and he'll be smarter than Vignar.

Today, though, he doesn't much feel like reading, and so Mhiralda will teach him to knit.

She's an older woman, a Redguard and member of the Circle. She's sterner than Hedvika, but warmer than Arnbjorn, and probably just as wise as Askar and Kodlak both. She tells him that knitting is an old art from Hammerfell, and that it's much easier than the nalbinding Tilma does in her spare time.

When she promises that strong fingers will make it easier to hold the iron sword he keeps dropping, Vilkas agrees.

So now he sits with a pair of knitting needles in his hands and a messy swatch hanging from them, and he's smiling so much he almost forgets he's sick. It's simple, and he's actually making something. It's not neat and sturdy, like Mhiralda's, but he will practice and he will learn. One day, if he keeps it up, Mhiralda says she will teach him how to make shirts and caps and all sorts of things.

When he's knitted a full square, Mhiralda helps him cast the yarn off the needles. Vilkas tucks the swatch into his pocket, proud of himself and eager to learn more.


	3. 16th Morning Star, 4E 175

It's the Festival of Lights in Dawnstar, and everyone is celebrating. There's not much to celebrate in such a cold town plagued by darkness and some cursed ruins nearby, but they'll try their hardest.

Alarik offers his son a sip of mead, just for the holiday. Most Nords agree that, while mead is an excellent drink, it's not intended for young children. On festivals, sure, but not for every meal. They have their mother's milk for the first couple of years, and then they can boil teas and make clean water like the old Nord explorers used to. The healers seem to think it's the best way, and Alarik trusts the healers.

But still he lets young Torvar try a sip, as he has the past few years on the day of the festival. Torvar smiles as he tastes the sweet honey on his tongue, and Alarik laughs- _a true Nord already._

The festival is more than mead, though, and Torvar loves every moment of it. There are bright candles everywhere, and the other townsfolk are handing out sweets and singing cheerful songs. For once in a year, the whole town has banded together in their cheer ignoring the ruins in the distance. For once in a year, it seems that everyone has one another's back. For once in a year, Dawnstar is happy.

And Torvar smiles, glad that he is a part of this moment of celebration in this town.


	4. 21st Last Seed, 4E 179

Mother and daughter lurk in a bush.

It's just past sunrise, and Hedvika has her bow drawn and pointing at a buck. Aela watches silently, memorizing how her mother tenses her arms and focuses her gaze. There's a formula to it, a muscle memory that lets her repeat the action quickly in battle and in hunt.

The arrow shoots forward with a snap of the bowstring. It's almost too fast for Aela to see the buck startle and stagger, and then another one shoots forward before the girl can do a double take. The buck falls to the ground, dead.

Hedvika holds up a cautionary hand to make sure Aela doesn't move until the coast is clear. The girl stays as still as she can possibly hold herself, not wanting to ruin the moment for her mother or herself. Once Hedvika is sure they're safe, she grabs the fallen deer and heads back to camp.

It's nice, these hunting trips with one another. As Hedvika skins and cooks the deer, she tells Aela stories of some of her battles as a Companion, and Aela nods with wonder. And later, as they eat the fresh venison and drink from their waterskins, Hedvika tells Aela what life in Jorrvaskr is like. She tells of the mead-swilling rabble, of the newer warriors who all have their own stories to tell. Aela giggles and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

Mother and daughter laugh by the campfire, and when Aela finally goes to sleep, Hedvika presses a warm kiss to her forehead and spends the night keeping watch


	5. 13th Hearthfire, 4E 183

The Nord girl living in Evermore is anything but small and dainty. The Breton girls around her age are smaller than Njada, and most of the boys, too. In fact, the only ones significantly larger than her are Orcs, and one of them is regretting saying anything about it right now.

She's got her foot on his chest, and Borak looks terrified. Petrified, even. He is taller, and more than a bit bulkier, and he's got a year on her. She'll never be quite as big as him, but she'll be close enough. He's strong, for a fourteen-year-old elf, but Njada is swift, and she knows how to hold her ground. Borak doesn't.

It only took a moment for her to knock him on his back, despite his taunts. He always says that a human can never best an Orc in battle. Maybe he's right. Battles are nothing but brute strength against brute strength. An Orc will win a battle, but a Nord will win a war. Wars require leverage, and defense, and planning, and that is what Njada is best at. She can see where he makes mistakes, and she can attack at his weakest spots and deflect what other damage he inflicts in the meanwhile.

Njada is not small and dainty, but that is not why she wins this fight. She wins because she observes.

She smirks as she digs the heel of her boot into his chest, knocking more air out of him. He surrenders, and she turns to the small crowd of other children._Anybody else want a go?_ They all shake their heads no.

Njada is strong and fearless, but above all else she is smart. As she goes home to her mother that evening, she smiles, knowing full well that she can handle herself.


	6. 10th Rain's Hand, 4E 176

When Jergen is still at Jorrvaskr, he doesn't much like to let the twins go to the Bannered Mare with the rest of the Companions. Always says it's too boisterous for a pair of young boys, as if they don't all live in a mead hall anyways.

But Jergen isn't there anymore, and the Companions are welcoming their newest member, Skjor. Farkas isn't sure how, but he's allowed to come along with them. It's exciting, really, being in the hustle and bustle of the tavern, and while he's not allowed to drink mead yet, he can still enjoy the food Kodlak gives him, and he can listen to the stories all the warriors tell.

And then he hears the bard.

For a moment, the rest of the hubbub stops, at least to him. There's only the soft twang of the lute, and the heavily accented voice of the woman singing about battles. Her stories are exciting, even if she doesn't much look like she's seen many battles herself. Her skin has no scars, and she doesn't wear armor. But she sings, and it's like he's there.

Farkas slowly moves away from the Companions, not even fully aware that he's doing it. Before he knows it, he's sitting on the floor in front of the musician, and he's smiling away like it's New Life Festival. The music is pleasing, much sweeter than the gruff voices of drunken fighters day in and day out. Farkas begins to wonder why they all don't sing their stories. They're good stories, anyways, but singing them would make them even better.

That evening, as Tilma shoos him and Vilkas off to bed, Farkas asks if he can have a lute someday. She smiles warmly, and tells him to go get some sleep and that she'll mention something to Askar in the morning.


	7. 28th Second Seed, 4E 138

She doesn't even hear him coming. The mer is light on his feet, almost better suited to be a thief or an assassin one day rather than a warrior like he says. He's slim and quick and barely eleven winters old, and he swears he'll be a fighter, if only to prove that he can.

They don't believe him. The other members of his clan are skeptical that he'll make it to adulthood, really. He can be rash, and daring, and quick to pick a fight with exactly the wrong person, such as his sister.

Demith turns around quickly when she feels Athis' wooden dagger at her back, and her arm immediately flies to knock him back. He laughs as he ducks and "stabs" her in the ribcage. _Got you_. His sister swings yet another punch, a smile slowly growing on her face. Athis ducks again, knocking his dagger at the other side of her torso. _Got you again_. She bends her knees and sets herself to headbutt him, and once again Athis ducks, hitting her in the stomach with the wooden blade. _You're dead_.

Athis stretches his arms out to catch her as she pretends to fall. She's older than him by several years, but she's still light and slim, and he's fairly strong. He'll be nothing if not a warrior, even if it means he has to trade daggers for axes and hammers. For now, though, he'll laugh and play. Children are not warriors, not even elven children.

But all children grow, and one day Athis will be the warrior he hopes to be, and he will use real daggers instead of wooden ones. One day.


End file.
